


the habit of a foreign sky

by reclamation



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: Dorian tries to do the right thing, the selfless thing: He ends his relationship with Inquisitor Lavellan and sets about the impossible task of reforming his homeland. That alone would be painful enough, but after a year in Tevinter—with no contact between them—circumstances force Dorian back to Skyhold.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works. This was originally posted in 2015 and written before I knew anything about _Trespasser_. The remaining chapters will follow shortly as I edit; I will aim for 3-5 day intervals. As the fic is posted, I'll backdate the chapters to the original dates of posting.
> 
> Title is taken from Emily Dickinson's “[Away from home are some and I—](https://arrangeyourlife.tumblr.com/post/639030380653084672/emily-dickinson)”

One year has passed since Dorian last saw Skyhold. He does not remember the gates of the keep being quite so tall and foreboding, nor does he expect the complex rush of emotion that comes from standing under the Inquisition flag again. He takes a moment to breathe before entering. Although he feels a need to step forward through those gates nearly as desperately as he wants to step away and pretend he never came, it is not hesitation.

“Who goes there?”

Dorian finds himself looking at a guard, the Inquisition symbol emblazoned on the chest of his armor. The guard is very young. If he served under Cullen’s command during the Corypheus fiasco, Dorian does not recognize him. And he, in turn, is not recognized; the guard eyes him warily, hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

Dorian doesn't even attempt to summon up the patience this encounter will obviously call for. He says, as bitingly as he can, "I do hope that's not how you greet every guest of the Inquisition. I can't imagine Josephine agreeing with the nobles treated in such a manner—she'd be unruffling their feathers for weeks! Or is this merely the welcome a Tevinter can expect?"

"Ser," the guard says, uncertainly. "I asked for your name."

"Dorian of House Pavus. Surely there's at least one story in circulation that you'll recognize the name from. I was there when the Inquisitor"—spared my mentor's life though he did not deserve it, because he knew what it would mean to me; nearly died in the Fade; swallowed a well of unknown magic hoping for the best like the idiot he is; sacrificed everything time and again—"saved the world after all."

Now the boy looks more awkward yet, though his hand has not moved from his sword. "I will have to ask for some proof to identify yourself."

"Proof?" Dorian asks, somewhat incredulously.

He has his family's amulet, but it won't mean anything to this farmer's-son-turned-Inquisition-soldier. There is only one other thing that might work, though he loathes the idea of putting it before strange eyes for scrutiny. He pulls out the letter he has carried all the way from Tevinter, carefully hidden in the folds of his robes. It is short and written in Josephine's delicate handwriting:

_Dorian,_  
_You are a friend of the Inquisition and always welcome.  
_ _Inquisitor Lavellan will be glad to see you once again._

They are pretty words, although Dorian suspects they are not entirely true. His own letter, which had prompted this short note as a response, was addressed directly to Lavellan and as long as he could make it without actually having anything to say. Rather, everything Dorian wanted to say, he could not entrust to a courier. The sting of being brushed off by Lavellan hasn’t dimmed. It wasn’t until he received this letter that he realized he was still harboring ridiculous hope—hope that Lavellan would forgive him for needing to be in Tevinter, for leaving Lavellan though he argued and wanted to help, for tearing out his own heart by suggesting they should end the relationship while Dorian was away.

And now he stands outside Lavellan’s Inquisition gates, required to show the evidence of just how foolish that hope was to some boy. His heart thuds in uneven judders, at once indignant and angry and crushingly disappointed.

He holds out the letter towards the guard. The boy looks at it as if Dorian were offering him a snake.

Just as the guard finally looks like he’s shored up enough courage to take the offending scrap of paper, a familiar voice says:

“Dorian!”

Dorian looks passed the guard to see Cullen striding in that purposeful way he has towards him.

Dorian tries on an ill-fitting smile. “Cullen, it’s good to see you. Though it appears you’ll have to wait for my credentials to be approved before I can greet you properly.”

Cullen doesn’t pay the guard any attention and instead clasps Dorian about the arm. The guard salutes and presses himself back against a wall in Cullen’s presence. Dorian cannot help but be pleased by the change in his attitude.

“What’s this about credentials?” Cullen asks.

“It would seem that I am a suspicious character. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why. Though I did naïvely believe I might have to track down Mother Giselle to get my quota of moral indignation for nothing more than breathing.”

Embarrassment crosses Cullen’s features. It is endearing to know that not so much has changed in a year. He says, flushing a little, “You’ve been away too long. We knew you’d arrive today or tomorrow, and I had the guards notified, but...” Cullen grimaces. “We’ve had to increase security lately and it must have fallen through the cracks. I apologize.”

“By all means, don’t worry yourself over it. I’m quite used to the treatment by now—the fearsome Tevinter mage, you know.”

Cullen nods, and almost says something. He stops, and Dorian can practically see him mulling over what to say next. They move through the gates, and Dorian’s heart only tremors slightly. Cullen finally asks, “How was Tevinter?”

“All scandal and political maneuvering—very homey indeed. Although Skyhold has a certain charm I’d forgotten, even if it’s as chilly and austere as I recall.” Skyhold is, in fact, exactly as Dorian remembers, so much so that the familiarity pangs in his chest. It even _smells_ the same: horse, steel, and stone.

Cullen laughs more than the feeble jest deserves. He manages to only look a little awkward as he says, “You just missed the Inquisitor, I’m afraid. There’s still some difficulty establishing the new Circles, and everyone wants him to oversee the changes personally, of course.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. He tells himself that he is not surprised and certainly not disappointed. “I’m afraid I come bearing news perhaps best not overheard.”

“I thought that might be the case. We’ve had our share of it lately,” Cullen says. He looks both wearier and lighter than he did the previous year. “You can go to the war room directly. I’ll gather Josephine and Leliana.”

“Ever the considerate host, Commander. Ushered straight from my long and arduous travels to full immersion in the constant intrigue of the Inquisition,” Dorian answers.

Cullen blushes, “If you need time to—” he gropes for words and Dorian takes pity on him.

“I’m only teasing, Cullen. This takes priority.”

“Very bad news then,” Cullen guesses.

“When is it not?”

Cullen nods, giving him the point. They walk some time in silence before Dorian can’t help but ask, “When will our dear Inquisitor return?” The question is too loud after the comfortable quiet between them, and Cullen’s look is a little too knowing. Dorian quickly adds, “It’s only that the news concerns him. Personally.”

“A week or so, I believe,” Cullen says, studying Dorian. They are at the first door leading to the war room already. Cullen looks away, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “It’s been a hard year for everyone, I dare say. The Inquisitor most of all.”

It would be narcissism beyond even Dorian’s abilities to believe he was more than a fraction of Lavellan’s hardships, but guilt coils in his belly regardless, knowing he was at least a contributor to whatever new miseries have been heaped upon the man’s head. He can think of nothing appropriate to say, so he asks, flippantly, “Suspicious timing, this business of the Inquisitor’s, is it not?”

Cullen says nothing in response at all, though he still looks at Dorian intently. Luckily, the moment passes and Cullen continues, “Go on ahead. I’ll get the others.”

Dorian takes the few minutes he has to study the war table, which is the only remarkable feature in the room. There are new markings and figures on it that he cannot identify. Nearly every town has a figure with a circle at its tip marked as needing attention. There is a large congregation in the Hinterlands similarly marked. More markers in the Northeast, too. There appears to be no shortage of things wanting the Inquisitor’s attention.

He isn’t sure how much time passes before the door opens and Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen enter. He fiddles with one of the markers on the table. It tilts and falls under his fingers.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Leliana says upon seeing him. Her lip twists in a way that is not entirely friendly.

Josephine smiles, sweet and reserved, “It was good to hear from you, Dorian. I was not sure if my letter arrived safely. Getting messengers to Tevinter has become somewhat harder as of late.”

“I imagine so, what with the Imperium all abuzz with plots to assassinate the Inquisitor and dismantle the Inquisition,” Dorian says. He pauses a moment before continuing blithely, “That’s what I came to say, by the way. Seemed like the sort of news that one should give in person. Oh,” he adds, as if just remembering it, “and it does feel so _good_ to be back.”

Leliana smiles at him thinly. “I’ll send one of my agents to notify the Inquisitor immediately. He’ll want to hear this himself.”

The image of Lavellan walking into the war room in a day or two flickers through Dorian’s mind.

He meets Leliana’s hard look evenly and says with a dry mouth, “Good idea.”

Just like that, the meeting is over. Josephine and Cullen are already ducking their heads together in discussion and Leliana whispers to an agent she has managed to make appear from nowhere.

Dorian doesn’t mean to listen in, he’s been dismissed at this point by virtue of being ignored, but something Josephine says catches his ear.

“Perhaps we should warn the Inquisitor about the Keeper before he arrives, too. I wouldn’t want him to be caught unawares.”

“The Keeper?” Dorian asks.

Josephine sighs. “Yes, Keeper Istimaethoriel of the Lavellan Clan. He arrived—without notice—shortly after the Inquisitor left.”

“A family visit, then,” Dorian says, scoffing. “And with only the best of intentions, of course, considering our dear Inquisitor’s rise to fame and power.”

“I cannot say, because I do not know,” Josephine says. “He will not tell anyone the reasons for his visit except the Inquisitor himself.”

Dorian says, “But you have suspicions.”

Josephine nods, looking towards Leliana quickly. Leliana shrugs and says, “Based upon the limited information we’ve been able to gather, we believe that Keeper Istimaethoriel is here to try to convince the Inquisitor to leave the Inquisition and return to the clan.”

“Abandon the Inquisition!” Dorian cannot imagine it. He cannot see the terrible machinery of the Inquisition without the thoughtful elf at the helm. He does not want to.

“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Cullen says. “The Inquisitor should be able to make it here by midday.”

Feeling unsettled, Dorian excuses himself to slip down to see what he can find in the Inquisition’s generous cellars. There’s nothing for a homecoming—even if Skyhold is not truly home—like a bottle of wine meant to impress whatever noble connections Josephine’s working on that particular week.

On the middle of a table in the very center of the room, he finds an especially nice bottle of brandy, wrapped up neatly with a bright bow and a card. The card has his name, again in Josephine’s script. The message inside reads: _“Welcome, Dorian! Please do not ‘borrow’ any of the Antivan red wines as they are meant for an upcoming banquet. You can have some then if you play nicely with the ambassadors we’ve invited. In the meantime, I’ve gone through the trouble of finding your favorite Tevinter brandy—Enjoy!”_

His own amusement catches him by surprise, and he ends up doubled over the table, laughing to himself. He takes the brandy, of course, but also is sure to locate a bottle of the Antivan red.

The success of a banquet does not likely rest upon a single bottle of wine, and Dorian is more direly in need of it if he’s to face Lavellan tomorrow. Plus, he suspects Josephine gets some satisfaction out of scolding him.

As it turns out, Lavellan arrives well before midday. Dorian is heading to avail himself of the Skyhold library when he has the luck to see Lavellan stumbling out of the stables. He is rumpled and nearly staggering, so it is obvious that Lavellan elected to forgo sleep in order to make good time. Ordinarily, it would be a delight to see Lavellan in such a disheveled state, but the weary set of his shoulders and the heavy bags under his eyes quell any of Dorian’s possible enjoyment.

Dorian waits at the entryway for Lavellan to catch up. He isn’t noticed until Lavellan is a mere few steps away, which is a testament to how tired he is.

Lavellan draws abruptly to a stop. “Dorian,” he says.

There’s something in Lavellan at that moment that reminds Dorian of when they first met and Dorian wondered whether all Dalish were equally inscrutable or if Lavellan was a singularly frustrating one. Perhaps it was the novelty of never having met a Dalish elf before, but Dorian imagined something wild and untouchable and set apart in that first impression. After that, he saw how Lavellan worked to reconcile leading the military, political, and religious machine that was the Inquisition with his once tightly-held Dalish traditions. Cassandra and Mother Giselle were always particularly frustrated every time Lavellan would take an opportunity to point out that he did not believe in Andraste or that he was a ‘Herald.’ At one point, when they had shared a bed for a few weeks, Dorian asked him about the markings on his face. Lavellan had laughed—not unkindly—and told him they were vallaslin and stood for the goddess of the hunt. Dorian had traced the stylized bow that covered Lavellan’s brow and asked, ‘Do you still believe in her—after all this?’ Lavellan had kissed him rather than answer. He hadn’t seemed so wild or inscrutable then.

But now Dorian cannot read the tone or expression, outside of the prominently displayed exhaustion and surprise.

“Yes, that’s me,” Dorian says, feeling awfully tongue-tied for someone who can’t quite force their mouth to stop making words, “To Tevinter and back again. With news. For you. It has been awhile, hasn’t it? I must say, you look _frightful_.”

Lavellan looks more amused than offended at the comment. He grimaces, “I feel frightful. I was going to go try to make myself presentable before Leliana grabs ahold of me—or did you need to talk to me about something first?”

Dorian realizes what it must have looked like, him pouncing on Lavellan only minutes after his arrival. He hopes his flush is not visible. “I—”

Lavellan holds up a hand, and interrupts, “If it’s okay, I’d rather move this to my quarters. Two birds with one stone—I can get out of this armor and listen.”

He should correct Lavellan. He should save whatever conversations they might have for the war room. He should do a great many things. But the offer is too tempting.

“That’ll do, I suppose. Lead the way, My Lord Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s answering smile is grateful.


	2. Chapter 2

“I already know the answer to this question—I often do know the answers to a great many things—but you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, did you?” Dorian asks as soon as Lavellan’s door shuts behind them.

Lavellan shrugs and gestures to the sofa for Dorian to sit on. Dorian tries to lounge rather than sit as stiffly as he feels. He is very aware that they are alone in these rooms, and he can see that Lavellan is, too. Lavellan’s eyes flick away, a little embarrassed.

Lavellan begins to undo the carapace of his armor with unusually clumsy fingers. He says, “Leliana’s message said I was needed. Urgently.”

“I doubt anything here is so urgent it couldn’t wait for you to rest some, yes?”

“You’d be surprised,” Lavellan says, setting his armor aside carefully. Underneath, his clothing is a mess. Dirt lines the edges of where his armor sat heavily during the ride, there is mud from his feet to his knees, and sweat darkens his collar. Dorian mentally amends his assessment; the Inquisition can do without Lavellan for at least as long as it took to get a few hours of sleep—and a _bath_. But Lavellan continues on unaware, “We’ve only just got the Circles into a semi-self-sufficient state recently. And then the Chantry, mages, and Grey Wardens—amongst others—all require immediate attention as well.”

“ _Your_ attention, of course,” Dorian says, sounding far more fond than he wishes. He had almost slipped and ended the sentence with an affectionate ‘ _amatus_ ,’ which is a mistake that doesn’t bear thinking about. He clears his throat. “You may want to look into delegation, dear Inquisitor. Not every problem must be solved by you personally.”

Lavellan shrugs again. It is not an endearing gesture, Dorian decides.

Lavellan says, “I have help: Cassandra has been smoothing things for us politically as the new Divine. Vivienne is overseeing the reconstruction of the Circles—although she greatly disapproves of the changes we’re instating, as suggested by Cullen and Leliana. Blackwall is wrangling the Grey Wardens.”

“And yet you still look as if you were run over by your own horse. Several times.”

Lavellan fixes him with a glare. “I doubt you came to mother hen me about how I’m managing as Inquisitor. If you have something you want to say, say it. I have to get to the war room.”

There is a healthy amount of offense in Lavellan’s stance, which Dorian did not intend. It has been months and still leadership doesn’t sit comfortably on those thin shoulders. The last thing Dorian wants is to add to those troubles.

Dorian says, “No, I didn’t. But I still contend that the Inquisition won’t crumble and become dust if you grant yourself two hours of sleep. I’ll even cover for you, if you like.”

“Dorian,” Lavellan says, warningly.

Dorian puts up his hands in defeat. “I know when I’ve been beaten. It pains me to admit, but I never could out-stubborn you. I’m entirely sure that’s how we defeated Corypheus—the obstinacy of one elf stood between us all and total destruction. A little terrifying to think about in retrospect.”

“Dorian,” Lavellan says again.

“Yes, yes. Down to business. I’ve already told the basics to your advisors, but I’ve come to tell you that the Imperium wants you dead.”

“Oh,” Lavellan says, disappointment dragging the short syllable low. “Is that the reason?” After a second, he seems to recover. He tries a joke, though it falls awkwardly between them, “Here I thought you might have been getting homesick. You don’t need a reason to visit—or write.”

“I did write,” Dorian replies, weakly. He does not say that it was less than a week ago, or that—though he failed every time—he had _tried_ to write before that, or how his heart had sunk when the response had been from Josephine rather than Lavellan. Or that Tevinter didn’t feel right anymore. There was the constant feeling of something missing.

Lavellan takes his silence for avoidance, because he swallows and continues, “Well, I’m ready to go hear more about this threat. If it’s not,” he stumbles over the next word, “personal, then we may as well discuss it with my advisors.”

Dorian is horrified for more than one reason. He settles upon the most obvious for complaint. “You cannot go looking like that! Josephine will lose all hope in you, and Vivienne, if she ever hears about it, will disown you directly.”

Lavellan inspects himself, fingering a few smudges on his clothing. He says, “I doubt a little dirt will cause the Inquisition to _crumble and become dust_.”

Dorian dislikes having his own words thrown back at him. He gestures to the closet and then to the bed. “I can’t condone this. You’re so deprived of sleep that you’re obviously not thinking clearly, so I will assist. Choose your poison: Either you sleep at least four hours or you change so you can look like a proper Inquisitor while we discuss how your life yet again hangs in the balance.”

“Fine,” Lavellan says. He moves towards the closet to pull out the usual uniform he wears in Skyhold. Though he appears determined, he is turning a little pink about the ears, so Dorian turns his back to give him some semblance of privacy.

“I did mention the thing about stubbornness?” he asks, lightly.

He can hear Lavellan huff slightly in answer. Clothing rustles. After a long moment, Lavellan says, “You can turn now.”

Lavellan is mostly decent. There’s a good deal more buttons that still need to be done up on his tunic, but the underclothing hides any skin that might be considered scandalous. Lavellan begins fumbling the remaining buttons closed.

“You could have sent a messenger about the,” Lavellan waves one hand like ‘assassination plot’ is something that can be conveyed with a few movements of his fingers. “Isn’t there a single courier you’d trust?”

As he works the next button, the sound of a breaking thread snaps under his hands. His fingers come away, rolling the detached button in his palm. Lavellan sighs in frustration.

“Josephine is going to have to live with me one button short of proper, I’m afraid. I don’t think I have the energy to change all over again.”

“Allow me,” Dorian says before thinking. His hand is already outstretched to take the button. Without hesitation, Lavellan hands it over. The silver stretch of thread is still mostly intact and attached. It is enough to work with. Dorian quickly straightens it out, smoothing the ends. Once that short process is done, Dorian realizes his offer was hasty. They have not touched in a year. “Would you like to take the jacket off?”

Lavellan grimaces. “Only if I must.”

Dorian rolls his eyes—of course, Lavellan would be difficult. He steps in close, holding the thread and button between them as if he needs to make his intentions clear. He feels ridiculous.

He says, “Let’s see if I can mend you a little, shall we?” In order to keep the fabric still, he must slip his fingers into the already warm jacket to hold it in place. The tiny holes where the button was previously threaded are too small to repair by hand without a needle, but it only takes a little maneuvering for the button to be fixed in the opposing hole. The solution isn’t so much a fix as a clever façade. The button hangs a little askew, even once Dorian has closed the buttons above and below it, but he thinks it’s a passable job. He pulls his hands back and they dangle at his sides without a task, chilling in the room’s air after the warmth of Lavellan’s jacket.

“There,” Dorian says, except it comes out as a croak. He was not so aware of the closeness required for the task until he tried to speak. “I have at least saved the Inquisition a few blushes over the state of its Inquisitor.”

Lavellan doesn’t move; he doesn’t speak; instead, he looks at Dorian with a sort of helplessness as if fixed there by Dorian’s eyes and words.

The quiet is unbearable. Dorian rushes to fill it. He says, “You haven’t asked me about Tevinter, you know. Even _Cullen_ expended at least a modicum of effort to pretend he cared.”

“I do care,” Lavellan answers. He looks anywhere but Dorian’s face. It is hard for him to avoid Dorian’s gaze with such proximity. Eventually, their eyes meet. “You know I do.”

They are far too close like this. Dorian has kissed those lips from less of a distance. He has cradled that head and stroked those ears and made love to this man. The last time Lavellan was so near, that is exactly what he had done. He has known that body intimately and been known in turn. Lavellan and he have done every imaginable thing, but Dorian has never been rendered so lost within boundless affection as the times when Lavellan would urge him down into his warm bed so that he could gently open Dorian and press inside while he rained messy kisses down on Dorian’s shoulders or lips or neck or chest. Dorian feels heat flush through him at just the memory.

He is on the precipice of doing something very, very foolish.

Worse, Lavellan’s eyes are heavy-lidded with more than exhaustion. He looks as if he could easily be coaxed into—

A heavy knock lands on the door, followed by a booming: “Hey, Boss?”

Lavellan steps back. His chest rises and falls a little too rapidly under his now neatly done buttons. Dorian cannot look away.

“The war room,” Lavellan says, voice creaking, and leaves.

Iron Bull is waiting for them. He gives them a look as they emerge from Lavellan’s quarters. There is a guarded sort of curiosity and a frustrating understanding in his expression that Dorian doesn’t want to contemplate. Iron Bull raises an eyebrow at him in question. Dorian scowls in return, which only causes Bull to smirk. Damn Qunari. Dorian is already irritated and they haven’t even exchanged a single word.

Lavellan, as dead on his feet as he is, notices none of this—or chooses to ignore it—and already begins to head towards the war room door.

The silent conversation wasn’t sufficient for Bull, apparently. He asks, “So what were you doing in the Boss' room?”

“Why were _you_ waiting right outside?” Dorian answers, trying not to wince at his own poor retort. Really, he expects better of himself, but he feels off-balance. He’s felt off-balance since he arrived.

Bull notices anyway and grins. He says, “These days, to get to the Inquisitor, you’ve got to go through me, which means I’ve gotta keep my eye on him.”

“Since when does the Inquisitor need minding? Last I checked, the man isn’t exactly defenseless.”

“Since the assassin’s guilds started having contracts roll in. You don’t shake up a whole political system and not make a few people angry at you,” Bull says, and now his smile is all teeth.

Paces away, Lavellan turns back to them. He seems to sway slightly in place at the movement. Even so, there is that familiar fierceness about him. “Please stop talking about me as if I’m not here. Dorian, Bull is my full time bodyguard. Leliana insisted.”

“And Josephine. And Cullen,” Bull adds. “Vivienne liked the idea, too. Not to mention Sera was following you around in the shadows with her bow at the ready until I got the _official_ position. Which was a little creepy of her in a thoughtful sort of way.”

“‘Assassin’s guild' you say!” Dorian says. “I haven’t heard about any of this. _Why_ haven’t I heard about any of this?”

Lavellan rounds on him, anger jerking through his body. He says, curtly, “You weren’t here.” He makes a short ‘that’s final’ sort of gesture. Then, he catches himself. When he speaks next, the anger is hidden again, and his voice calmer. “It doesn’t matter. We have larger worries. There hasn’t been an attempt on my life yet. It’s nothing but talk so far.”

Iron Bull disagrees with this assessment, judging by the clench of his jaw. He claps Dorian on the back once, a great, jarring hit. “But you’re back. It’ll be useful to have a mage at the Inquisitor’s side again. Vivienne is always off doing Circle shit,” he says.

“No,” Dorian answers. “I’m not staying.”

Lavellan turns from them. It isn’t quite quick enough to hide the pinch of hurt that crumples his brow and eyes. Dorian wishes he could take back his words, but they were the truth. They have always been honest with each other, if nothing else.

“Let’s go,” Lavellan says.

Bull gives him another look, behind Lavellan’s back, and Dorian is irritated all over again.

Leliana is happy to interrogate Dorian about what he knows now that Lavellan is present. Lavellan, for his part, seems content enough to let her. Cullen and Josephine watch tensely from the sidelines. Iron Bull leans back precariously in a chair, feet kicked up against the legs of the table. It is a lengthy interrogation.

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose and says for approximately the third time, “The Venatori haven’t exactly been nullified. The leadership is broken, but the sentiment remains. And the Imperium isn’t rushing to deter them. It would seem that the Imperium is awfully concerned with the Inquisition’s...diversity. The Inquisition holds open alliances with Orlais’ empress and Ferelden’s king, possesses a prominent Antivan ambassador, associates closely with the Nevarran Divine, counts a Qunari amongst its more prominent members, and is led by a Dalish Inquisitor from the Free Marches.”

“They’re worried that they’re being surrounded,” Cullen guesses.

“Exactly,” Dorian says. “Surrounded, outnumbered, and rather unpopular to boot after Corypheus. Geographically speaking, Tevinter is nestled right in the middle of that mess and—unpopularity aside—who knows when a Dalish Inquisitor might decide to take offense with any number of its present day policies?”

“So you don’t know who holds the contract on Lavellan’s life,” Leliana says.

Dorian grimaces. “In all likelihood, there’s more than one. It wouldn’t be surprising. Bull has since filled me in on the fact he’s apparently collecting death threats—but a credible one from Tevinter surely ranks as a concern.”

Cullen rubs at his eyes tiredly, Josephine looks positively distressed, Leliana is likely considering how many people must disappear to remove the threat, and Iron Bull looks eager for a challenge. Lavellan alone seems unperturbed by the news. Dorian can’t say if it’s because Lavellan is fighting off sleep—apparent every time he muffles a yawn behind his hand—or because this is a weekly occurrence, if on a larger scale.

“Tell us more about how these things work in Tevinter,” Leliana orders. Dorian tries not to bristle at the commanding tone. “We’re all familiar with how these contracts work in Orlais,” she gives Josephine a pointed look, “but perhaps we shouldn’t draw hasty assumptions.”

“Much the same, I suspect, except with a distinct flavor of ‘race to the finish,’” Dorian answers. “Often, a contract given out to any of the guilds will be made public knowledge, which is then taken as a challenge. Any other guild who can fulfill the contract first gets the dubious privilege of shaming the original guild, who actually held the contract. Notoriety and bragging rights go a surprisingly long way in Tevinter.”

“Let me guess—the higher profile the target, the more cutthroat the race.”

“Indeed! And how better to describe our Inquisitor than ‘infamous’?” Dorian says, “Even better, my contacts said that the contract would likely be made public within the week. And that was several days ago now.”

“Ah, I understand your hurry now,” Josephine says. “You wanted to make it here before such a publication was made to ensure the Inquisitor’s safety.”

Dorian smiles blandly in answer, pointedly not acknowledging the implication in the words.

“Until we know more, there’s not much we can do,” Cullen says. He adds, somewhat hopefully, “Unless the Inquisitor is willing to allow for more personal security?”

“No,” Lavellan says, immediate and certain. Cullen concedes with the air of a man who’s already lost that particular battle before.

“There is one more issue on the agenda,” Leliana says.

Josephine nods and agrees, “Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan arrived shortly before Dorian. I’ve settled him into one of the guest quarters for the time being.”

Lavellan flinches at the name as if struck. Everyone waits on him to breach the topic, but he says nothing. He looks somewhat like a cornered animal, eyes a little too wide and ready to flee at the first opportunity.

“Have you had the opportunity to speak with him?” Josephine asks delicately.

“No,” Lavellan snaps. He visibly masters himself and draws in a long breath. Apologetically, he adds, “I need to at least catch a nap before I can deal with my clan.”

They adjourn from the war table with no real plan. Dorian finds himself without any clear plan, so he follows Iron Bull and the Inquisitor wordlessly. It nags at him that no action is being taken immediately on the impending possibility of assassination. And he wonders how the Keeper’s presence could signal anything but trouble. Lavellan very clearly thought the same, if he wants to fortify himself for the upcoming conversation.

Before Bull and Dorian can shove Lavellan into his quarters for some badly needed rest, an elf dressed in Dalish garb approaches calmly but determinedly, placing himself directly in front of the Inquisitor. Without a doubt, from his dress to how he holds himself, it must be Keeper Istimaethoriel.

In the early days of Skyhold, Varric once told Dorian that he believed the Inquisitor was cursed. No person could _naturally_ have such terrible luck. Dorian had thought the comment rather droll at the time, but now he wonders if there isn’t truth in it.

“ _Lethallin_ , it has been a long while,” Istimaethoriel says, blocking their path.

“Keeper,” Lavellan says, bowing slightly.

Istimaethoriel does not offer a bow of his own. He asks, “Is there somewhere we might be able to speak?”

Dorian can see how Lavellan has to summon the strength to continue the conversation. He looks so weary, he wonders that Istimaethoriel—supposedly kin of Lavellan’s—cannot see it.

Lavellan answers, “I apologize, Keeper. I only arrived a few hours ago and the travel was somewhat tiring.”

“It is nothing, _lethallin_. I will keep this short so that you might rest. We will speak again after you have recovered, but I would have you think on something in the meantime,” Istimaethoriel says. His demeanor reminds Dorian of every self-important tutor his father had ever found for him when he was young. A sense that is only further cemented by how impossibly young Lavellan looks under the Istimaethoriel’s rebuke. “I have yet to see another of our People in this place you choose to live in. Did Andruil, she who you bear upon your face, not tell us that we are stronger together than as one? It is time to come home, _da’len_. The danger has passed and your clan needs you.”

“No, you were right, Keeper. We should speak privately. Sleep can wait,” Lavellan says, tensing from his jaw down the rigid line of his spine. “Bull, I don’t think I’m likely to be murdered in the next twenty minutes. Why not take a break?”

Dorian expects Bull to argue. Damnit, _Dorian_ wants to argue, but Bull bows to Lavellan deeply. His tone is uncharacteristically deferential when he says, “Yes, ser.”

Lavellan looks a little confused at the formality, but doesn’t remark on it. He turns towards Dorian. “Dorian, we...” he pauses. “We should probably talk later. I’ll find you this evening.”

Istimaethoriel pulls Lavellan away, with only a gentle hand upon his shoulder, before Dorian even agrees.

“I don’t think I like him at all,” Dorian says, crossing his arms. “From all that ‘yes, ser’ crap, I’m guessing you’re not Istimaethoriel’s biggest fan either.”

Bull nods and says, “Didn’t think it would hurt to show him that we respect our boss in a way he’d understand.”

“Not like he was very concerned with showing much respect.”

“Exactly. The Keeper’s game is trying to remind the Inquisitor of his place in the clan,” Bull says, sounding as furious as Dorian’s ever heard him. “I don’t know much Elvish—just what I’ve picked up from the Chargers—but _‘lethallin’_ is something like ‘clansman’ or ‘kinsman,’ I think.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong,” Sera says, appearing from thin air. Distaste turns the corners of her mouth into a vicious scowl. “I’m no Dalish, right. Don’t want to be neither. But he’s talking down-like, that one. _‘Da’len’_ this, _‘lethallin’_ that. _Lethallin_ ’s not so bad, really. Could say that to anyone, if they’re family or some such. _Da’len_ , though,” she spits the word out, “that’s not for an Inquisitor. _Len_ ’s for babies—it’s _rude_.”

“I don’t like that man at all,” Dorian repeats, because it seems the sort of thing that needs repeating.

Sera jostles him with an elbow. “Welcome back or something. Nice timing having you here for good again now. That elfy talk won’t go to his head so long as you’re about.”

Dorian is too lost in his own anger to correct her.


	3. Chapter 3

Sera lingers only a few minutes before disappearing. As she goes, she grumbles about finding out where Istimaethoriel sleeps, which would have Dorian feeling sorry for almost anyone else. He finds, however, that he doesn’t have even the smallest amount of pity to offer to Istimaethoriel and whatever awful fate Sera plans for him.

Lavellan may have put any discussion with Dorian off until the evening, but Dorian feels no compunction about waiting side-by-side with Bull for him to return. Dorian can wait to continue where they left off, that’s fine and well, and the man deserves his rest. It is only that, left to his own devices, Dorian doubts Lavellan will use the time between now and then to get that rest.

It’s not as if there aren’t any number of reasons to wait with Bull until Lavellan returns anyway, Dorian thinks. It’s kind to entertain an unoccupied friend, especially a friend who looks like he’s trying to swallow down his anger, matched by Dorian’s own, at the treatment of a much-respected mutual acquaintance. And there’s no small amount of curiosity to see how this situation with Istimaethoriel will develop. But it’s more than just kindness or curiosity, because Dorian keeps thinking of the tone Istimaethoriel used when he called Lavellan  _ da’len _ .

No, leaving Lavellan with his former Keeper—or should he say  _ current _ , even having been outside of the clan for well over a year?—causes something akin to anger roil in Dorian’s stomach.

So Dorian and Iron Bull wait. Bull doesn’t ask why Dorian stays, and Dorian doesn’t volunteer any information.

Nearly an hour passes.

Dorian’s pretty sure that the only reason he can stand the fact that Lavellan apparently has no intention of returning is because Bull still looks every bit as irritated as Dorian feels. Well, as irritated as Iron Bull ever gets.

“Either he managed to stumble into his own assassination after all,” Dorian says, “or I do believe he’s given you the slip.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Iron Bull admits.

“Sounds frustrating.”

“Keeps me on my toes,” Bull admits. “Alright, he’s had enough time. Let’s go find him.”

“Oh, it’s like a game,” Dorian agrees with as much false cheer as he can muster. “Goody.”

They find Lavellan not far away. He is with Josephine rather than Istimaethoriel. Iron Bull puts a hand out, stopping Dorian from rounding the corner just as he hears the murmur of familiar voices. Bull tilts his head to listen, and Dorian is briefly amused that there is not a single soul in Skyhold above listening at figurative keyholes.

She says, in a hushed voice, “But for how long, Inquisitor? You make it sound as if you plan to leave for an extended time.”

Dorian cannot make out Lavellan’s response.

“I believe we should discuss this tomorrow with Cullen and Leliana. It may be that we can find an alternative yet. If not, then you will at least only have to explain your reasoning once.”

The conversation must end there, because Lavellan is staring at them a second later, having drawn to an abrupt halt after nearly walking into Bull accidentally.

“You heard that, I suppose?” he asks, exasperated.

Bull shrugs, “Heard some, boss. Don’t worry about it. It’ll keep until later.”

“Praise Andruil for that. I could sleep for two days straight after today,” Lavellan says. He waves Iron Bull off. “As much as I appreciate your company, I think I can make it all the way to my quarters on my own.”

“And have Cullen come after my head when the Inquisitor is killed on my watch?” Bull asks.

“Someone pointed out today that I’m not entirely defenseless,” Lavellan says.

The words and accompanying look capture Dorian’s attention from where it tightly dwelled over Lavellan’s apparent plans. “So you’re going then? Just like that?” he asks, disbelieving.

“I may have to,” Lavellan answers.

The walk to Lavellan’s quarters only takes moments. Iron Bull waits until Lavellan is inside before turning to go. Dorian hovers, unsure, in the doorway. His tongue burns with all manner of accusations.

“I know that look. You won’t be happy until we have this out,” Lavellan says, sighing. “Might as well come in.”

Dorian takes the invitation immediately, breezing past Lavellan. He marches straight to the center of the room, drawing up his rising indignation like a barrier around him. “I cannot believe you’re considering this. What? Istimaethoriel couldn’t be bothered to do more than send a single inquiry while you were fighting every day to stop Corypheus, but now he snaps his fingers and you fall in line?”

Dorian’s tone or his insult hits home like an arrow on its mark. Lavellan would be staggered, had the attack been physical. As it is, he visibly has to take a moment to collect his words. He says, “My clan is my home. I cannot turn my back on them.”

Dorian remains on the offensive. “He wants to take your accomplishments and twist them to suit his purposes. Why else would he have waited until now to demonstrate he cares whether or not you still breathe? Do you even  _ wish _ to return to that life?”

It occurs to Dorian that he has never asked this before, when he likely should have. Lavellan had gently asked time and again about what Dorian hoped to do after all the battles were won, but preoccupied as he was by his own thoughts, he had never returned the question in kind. The small hypocrisy of his own inadequacy roughens his next question as he drives on:

“You know good and well he wants to  _ use _ you, yes?”

“Then I should allow myself to be used. I have a duty and they are my people.”

Lavellan has always been quiet and reserved, even in the face of the worst the world had to throw at him, but Dorian has learned to read into the small details of every gesture and line of his body. The steel in his tone is about as obvious as a templar’s sword, evident to anyone who looks. But now Dorian knows to look for the more subtle details. He knows the minute clenching of his jaw for when Lavellan makes up his mind and won’t be moved from his decision; he knows the slight narrowing of his eyes means Lavellan is trying to keep a leash on anger that has nearly gotten away from him; he knows in every stiffened muscle that Lavellan is deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation.

It doesn’t matter, thinks Dorian. Let him be uncomfortable.

“No, no, no,  _ wrong _ . Your duty—your  _ home _ —is here in Skyhold. Or have you not noticed how the place falls apart the minute you’re away? It's not as if there's an abundance of candidates with glowing green hands running about.”

"The breach is closed. No one needs the anchor anymore."

"Yes," Dorian says, spitting out the syllable shortly, "Because  _ that _ is the only reason you're leading the Inquisition."

“I’m not discussing this further.” Lavellan sighs, expression somewhere between weariness and determination. He says, quieter, “I thought  _ you  _ might understand that, if anyone would, Dorian.”

The words hit Dorian like a blow, and his breath catches in his throat. He lets out a loud hiss, before quickly trying to recover.

“Careful, that almost sounded like an accusation,” he takes another breath, meeting Lavellan eye-to-eye. “But we aren't talking about  _ my _ perceived faults. What did that Keeper of yours tell you, hmm? Let me guess! Now that you’re a hero, you need to bring that celebrity to use for the welfare of the Dalish. By which I specifically mean  _ his _ welfare, of course. Please pay no attention to the awfully convenient timing as he comes to collect you like an errant child.” He should stop, Dorian knows he should, but the words are a tumble now, falling one after the other, “Ah, speaking of! I had the good luck to learn a new word today— _ len _ was it? Child? Your dear Keeper respects you a good deal, yes?”

Lavellan’s mouth curls up into an ugly snarl. It makes him nearly unrecognizable, all tightly controlled rage and defiance. He stands in Dorian’s space, inches away and Dorian imagines he can feel the emotion that flexes in Lavellan’s knuckles, right down to the glowing mark of his left hand.

Lavellan takes a breath and closes his eyes. Dorian can’t help but wonder if he’s calling upon Dalish gods for patience or resolve, whether he feels closer to those deities after being so callously reminded of his heritage earlier. Dorian’s eyes trace out the elegant lines of the symbol on Lavellan’s face as they share breath in a fraught silence. When Lavellan opens his eyes again, there is clarity in his level gaze. They are standing closely again, unbearably so.

“It’s something I have to do. Speaking of, I think I owe you a question—how  _ is _ your work in Tevinter going?”

Dorian doesn’t know how to respond. It is harder to think while aware of Lavellan’s body so near his and with tension snapping between them. With the change in topic, the moment breaks. The argument has left him suddenly without energy to continue with indignation or anger, so he sighs and offers the truth instead: “I was greeted on all sides with snide comments, invasive questions, and closed doors. But there is a small group who have begun to come around to my way of thinking. And there are changes. Miniscule, laughable even—when compared to what you’ve accomplished—but changes all the same.”

“Was it worth it?” Lavellan asks.

Dorian senses the trap and hesitates. It was worth it, he thinks, but to say so would be to validate Lavellan’s argument. He says, and this is true, too, “Even if it’s the right thing, every minute there is miserable without you.”

For a moment, Lavellan tenses further and then deflates. He ducks his head, rubbing at his face. Dorian cannot see what emotion is in those eyes, but Lavellan’s hand trembles as it rises and falls again.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“It’s the answer you get all the same. I do miss you. I wish there could have been a different path for us.”

“There could have been—there still can be. The Inquisition would be happy to provide support for your efforts,” Lavellan says, not for the first time. “No one could say it would be because you have  _ undue influence _ over me any longer. We haven’t even spoken in a year before today.”

Dorian’s heart sinks. He has to swallow to wet his suddenly dry mouth. “You’re saying that I have no more meaning to you than any other person?” he asks. He wants Lavellan to correct him. He has no rightful claim to Lavellan’s trust or love any longer, having chosen to throw it away in pursuit of doing the damnable right thing, but he wants—desperately—to hear the opposite.

“No, that isn’t what I’m saying,” Lavellan says, and smiles unhappily, “But I am working on it—and, regardless of how I feel, you do have as much right to Inquisition support as the others. I don’t understand why you won’t accept any help. From me. Everyone else asks when they need something. And you know Leliana or Cullen or Josephine, were they the Inquisitor, would offer the same to you." He frowns. "Or if you did not want to be associated with me personally, I could arrange it through agents.”

“That’s not the point,” Dorian says, but he is barely listening. He has not moved past the first sentence, because it sounds very much to his hopeful ears like Lavellan would have waited for him, had he asked. “I wanted to accomplish something for myself. To prove, well, that I could.”

“I know, Dorian. But it doesn’t diminish your accomplishments to accept help.”

Lavellan looks at him now and Dorian cannot understand that inscrutable look.

Then it is less inscrutable as Lavellan leans forward, brushing his lips lightly along Dorian’s. The kiss is hesitant, barely anything more than a light touch of Lavellan’s chapped lips to his own, but it sends a shock through Dorian’s chest that causes him to gasp. Lavellan presses another kiss, like a question, to the corner of Dorian’s mouth. Lavellan’s hand, unsteady, touches Dorian’s cheek with light fingertips.

“Oh,” he says, because his heart clenches under Lavellan’s uncertain attentions. “This is a bad idea. An astoundingly bad idea.”

Immediately, Lavellan withdraws, apology clearly written across his face. Just as quickly, the look is smoothed out into a neutral expression, the exact one Lavellan practiced with Josephine in preparation for the Winter Palace.

“I shouldn’t have done that, you’re right. It was selfish of me,” Lavellan says. “I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

It is too much. Dorian’s mind too easily supplies the past instances that this had turned out differently for them. Where Dorian had always been taught to hold back and hide his desires, Lavellan is so open. His first instinct has always been to reach out and touch and comfort. Dorian loves that about him—how free Lavellan is with affection, how he had drawn strength from touching Dorian’s cheek or hand in difficult moments.

Lavellan’s hands no longer tremble, they have been schooled into obedience just as his expression has, but the fingers of his hand grip his own wrist as if he is stopping himself from reaching for Dorian now.

Dorian has never been known for his selflessness; his newborn resolve, forged and tempered this past year, crumbles.

Slowly, he settles his palms over the curve of Lavellan’s shoulders. The simple gesture thoroughly shatters Lavellan’s mask. Without permission, his fingers slip upwards to brush at the exposed skin above Lavellan’s collar. One sweep of his thumb runs along the entire stretch of neck to stop just under the jaw. He feels more than hears the hitch in Lavellan’s breath, followed by the unsteady thumping of his heart.

“I never could deny you anything,” Dorian says. It doesn’t feel like a lie until it has already left his tongue.

Lavellan huffs a rueful laugh. He says, leaning into the gentle press of Dorian’s hands, “You know that isn’t true. Maybe I’m weak to need you when you so obviously have no need of me.” One of his hands lightly comes to rest over Dorian’s, curling both their intertwined fingers under his ear. “But I did try not to. I had a year to learn.”

“I—” Dorian starts, not sure what he wants to say. Only Lavellan has ever struck him speechless.

Lavellan does not let him continue. “I know you’ll go back to Tevinter. I know that you won’t let me come with or help, though I would gladly do so,” he swallows, and one of Dorian’s hands slips down to chase the movement, stroking the slender throat, “I know that  _ this _ isn’t real, but I want it. I can’t help wanting it—wanting  _ you _ . Even if it doesn’t mean the same thing to you as it does for me.”

Abruptly, Dorian feels ill. He would have thrown himself back from Lavellan, but Lavellan’s gentle hand holds him in place.

They have had this conversation once before except in reverse. Lavellan had disabused him thoroughly of all his concerns, and Dorian had dared to hope for something greater for the first time in his life. Now, Dorian has precious few assurances or hopes to offer in return. He wants to say that nothing has changed; Lavellan is no more a passing pleasure to Dorian than Lavellen was to him then. He wants to be not so cruel that he would reward Lavellan’s careful handling of his heart with uncaring treatment in return.

His fingers, still cradling Lavellan’s uneven pulse, call him a liar.


End file.
